


the dog days are over; the dog days are done

by heygorgeous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, I made myself sad, Instagram, M/M, im sorry, makkachin is my fav
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9199331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heygorgeous/pseuds/heygorgeous
Summary: Vicchan, despite his namesake, has become Yuuri’s partner-in-crime, study companion, as well as faithful friend. More importantly, Vicchan has become Yuuri’s loss to bear. Which is why, when Yuuri’s fumbling with his conscience, clearly torn, Hiroko says:“I want you to be happy. Vicchan would, too.”[the makkachin fic no one asked for]





	

**Author's Note:**

> ok so major angst alert   
> i made myself sad  
> this work is based off a scanlation called "me and my master"  
> ( http://yolo-on-ice.tumblr.com/post/153323984303/me-and-my-master )   
> and like. ive never had a dog  
> but im very very upset right now  
> i think i might be crying

Viktor isn’t the first to see it coming; Makkachin all but hurls itself across the room, a fluffy bundle of joy pouncing onto Yuuri, pushing him over in the entrance of Yu-topia. Wasting no time, the poodle starts licking every inch of Yuuri’s face, paws digging almost painfully into his chest.

“A-ah, Makkachin!” Yuuri protests, half-heartedly trying to dissuade the dog from its assault.

Viktor enters, luggage in tow, and pouts. “No fair! Where’s _my_ hug, boy?”

Makkachin pauses, looking up at Viktor, eyes glazed over from something like sheer ecstasy. And then, a tail’s wag is all the warning Viktor gets before the dog launches into his waist. Makkachin nuzzles into Viktor’s chest, before pulling itself up and panting from the exhaustion of tackling two grown men.

“I’m home, Makkachin,” Viktor says lovingly, combing through Makkachin’s stiff fur. “You really need a bath, boy.”

Mari’s in the hallway almost immediately, a towel slung over her forearm. “Ah. Yuuri. Welcome back.”

“I’m home,” Yuuri says, removing his shoes and placing them by the side.

Mari shakes her head at Makkachin. “The dog’s been literally unmovable since you left. He’s just like Vicchan.”

Yuuri is unable to hide the pang of overdue sentimentality in his chest – he’s almost forgotten about Vicchan, waiting patiently for him in the room. Yuuri glances back at Makkachin, who’s still resting in Viktor’s lap, tail lazily beating against the ground. The spoilt poodle is apparently oblivious to Viktor’s languid orders to get off, instead resting its head under Viktor’s caresses, enjoying the attention he’s missed since the start of their trip to Barcelona.

“Been trying to give it a good shower since you left,” Mari says. “What a dog.”

 “What a dog,” Yuuri says, nodding. “It’s been hard on you.”

“So, silver, huh,” Mari says. “Good job.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, flushing. “Where’s mum?”

“Probably making _katsudon_ or something,” Mari says, shrugging.

There’s a moment of silence, before Mari whacks him, hard, on the shoulder. Yuuri’s no stranger to the congratulatory slap-on-the-back, but it sure _stings_ every single time. Mari grins, eyes crinkling, before drawing Yuuri into a bear-like hug.

“You’ve grown so much, Yuuri,” Mari says, ruffling his hair fondly. “Congrats.”

“Thank you, Mari,” Yuuri whispers, arms quick to return the hug.

Mari lets go first. “Now go take a bath – everyone’s waiting for you.”

“I should visit Vicchan first,” Yuuri says, hands rubbing together.

Viktor looks up at the sound of the nickname.

“You should,” Mari says. “He’ll be proud.”

Yuuri nods, feeling the weight of his silver medal stowed away in his backpack. Mari smiles, and turns away, muttering something about the celebratory dinner. Yuuri glances back at Viktor, and sees the same mild exasperation on his face as Makkachin whines, unwilling to move.

 “C’mon, boy,” Viktor says a little louder, and Makkachin budges grudgingly, sluggishly stalking after his owner. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

_

Yuuri kneels before Vicchan’s photograph, backpack in tow. He had urged Viktor to give Makkachin a good shower first, seeing how the dog was about to collapse after his grand display of bliss. More than that, Yuuri knows that he needs this to himself.

“Vicchan, I’m home,” Yuuri says, taking a piece of tissue and wiping the framed photograph gently.

The shrine’s been well-maintained, and though there’s no dust lining the cabinet, Yuuri wipes every inch of it carefully. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to do this again.

“You must have been lonely,” Yuuri continues. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a quiet lull of cicadas, just as Yuuri reaches for the bag of incense sticks. The candles have been replaced – they’re still burning, even though it’s almost nighttime. Yuuri lights one incense stick, tapping a finger against the slender offering, watching ash flicker to reveal an orange sun. He sighs, and sticks the incense in the tin burner.

“I won second,” Yuuri says softly, still hesitant to claim the accomplishment as his own. “It’s not gold, but…”

Yuuri digs around in his bag, and finds the silver medal properly wrapped up in a handkerchief. He peels the layers off, and presents the glinting medal to Vicchan. It’s an odd addition to the shrine, in all its polished, lacquered glory. Yuuri finds himself wondering if he should have gotten something like bronze instead to fit the colour of Vicchan’s coat.

It’s silly, he knows, and Vicchan finds that silly too – the framed ghost of his doggish laughter staring straight into Yuuri’s tired eyes.

 “Alright, I’ll win gold next time,” Yuuri says, and turns away.

“I’m sure you will,” his mother says, entering the room. “Yuuri.”

She crosses the room in a few quick steps, before kneeling down beside Yuuri. Yuuri draws his bag closer, making space, and rotates himself to face her. She’s smiling, a kind relief blooming across her cheeks.

“I’m so proud of you, Yuuri,” Hiroko continues to say, and Yuuri notices the gentle creases of her eyes. “And Viktor, of course.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. “For everything.” _For Vicchan._

“You did good,” Hiroko laughs. “That man’s a catch.”

“M-mum!” and despite his blushes, his protests, Yuuri can’t help but smile.

Hiroko leans over and pats the silver medal. “What are you going to do from now, Yuuri?”

There’s the question. Yuuri knows his answer, of course, but it feels wrong to say it out, especially with Vicchan here.

Hiroko arranges the framed photo with utmost care, and retreats slowly into a kneeling position once more. She looks back at her son, and sees a child-like pining, a child-like wonder, a child-like love; she won’t deny that Yuuri had Vicchan simply because Viktor had Makkachin, but she’s certain that Yuuri no longer sees Vicchan as merely a substitution. Vicchan, despite his namesake, has become Yuuri’s partner-in-crime, study companion, as well as faithful friend. More importantly, Vicchan has become Yuuri’s loss to bear. Which is why, when Yuuri’s fumbling with his conscience, clearly torn, Hiroko says:

“I want you to be happy. Vicchan would, too.”

 Yuuri considers that for a moment, and turns to look at Vicchan. “I’m moving to Russia.”

Hiroko exhales softly, balancing precariously the lightheaded shine of pride and the familiar wrench of letting go. She’s done it countless times, but it hurts the same. “Good.”

Yuuri swallows, and looks back at her, eyes already glossing over with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hiroko says, and pushes the air out from her chest through the mouth, hoping to still her heart. “You want to be with Viktor, right?”

“Yes,” Yuuri whispers. “I’m happy with him.”

“Good,” Hiroko repeats. “Then I’m happy for you.”

Yuuri nods, but looks back at Vicchan.

“He’ll always be here,” Hiroko affirms, understanding. “But now, it’s your time to go.”

Yuuri blinks his tears away. “I’ll be back with a gold medal.”

There’s a bark of affirmation somewhere behind him. Yuuri spins around, and sees Viktor, still jet-lagged and mussed up. Makkachin’s in the hallway, a bulk of soft curls lying contentedly on the floor. Hiroko claps her hands together, and excuses herself from the room cheerfully.

“I see you got Makkachin cleaned up,” Yuuri says, wiping away at the wetness in his eyes.

If Viktor sees it, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, Viktor strides into the room, and settles down beside Yuuri. He takes Yuuri’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers together.

“I did,” Viktor says, and then, clumsily in Japanese, “hello, Vicchan. I hope Makkachin was your friend.”

Yuuri chuckles, and leans into Viktor’s arms. “I’m sure he was good company.”

“Makkachin is,” Viktor agrees, tilting his head back and gazing at his old companion.

_

The celebratory dinner is more exuberant than Yuuri imagines; just by the shadows on the rice paper panels he can tell the number of balloons is a little shy of hazardous, and the hushed gasps of excitement are telling enough. Viktor’s hand rests on the small of his back, holding him back. They wait patiently, before shifty silence envelopes the room, and the lights are dimmed down.

In the darkness of the corridor, Yuuri looks up at Viktor, and then down to where he can hear the pants of what he thinks to be Makkachin. Viktor strokes his back, and urges him forward, a smile in his voice.

The moment Yuuri opens the door, Minami pops a party popper in his face.

“Congratulations!” Minami shouts, and waves them into the conference room.

There are hand painted banners and posters pinned all around the room. Yuuri catches sight of one from when they had kissed at the Cup of China – an enlarged copy from Phichit’s Instagram collection, no doubt – and buries his face in his hands.

Viktor laughs, and pries Yuuri’s fingers away from his reddened face. “Now, now. Some of them are mine, you know.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri exclaims in horror, and bites his lip to stop the inevitable onset of a goofy smile.

Hiroko watches them from the table, pleased.

_

Viktor slips away from the table quietly, following in Hiroko’s footsteps. She’s just outside the room, gently coaxing an indifferent Makkachin with a plate of leftover _katsudon_. Viktor approaches them, and Makkachin lets out a low whine upon his arrival.

“Ah, Vicchan,” Hiroko says. “Makkachin hasn’t been eating much, so I thought he might like some _katsudon_ to eat.”

Viktor’s Japanese isn’t amazing, but he gets by. “It’s alright. Thank you, Mama Hiroko. Allow me?”

Hiroko nods, and hands him the plate. Viktor flashes a charming smile in gratitude, before focusing on the slothful fluffy creature. Makkachin fixes him with a listless stare, and nudges his knee. Viktor pats him on the head before tucking his hand under its chin, rubbing its jaw. Makkachin makes no attempt to raise his head, and sinks further into the touch.

“Vicchan,” Hiroko says gently, cautious in a way so maternal it makes Viktor sigh. “How long have you had Makkachin?”

“A while,” Viktor says. “Some, fourteen, fifteen years.”

Hiroko smiles, and catches Viktor by surprise when she says, “He must have been strong, to be alone.”

“Yes, Mama Hiroko,” Viktor says, after a moment’s pause. “Makkachin is very, very strong.”

“He loves you a lot,” Hiroko continues, and even she’s not sure who she’s talking about. “You take care of him.”

Viktor’s breath hitches. “Yes, I will.”

And then, Hiroko relaxes, a bittersweet smile on her lips. “Let him take care of you too.”

Viktor returns the plate to Hiroko. “Yes, Mama Hiroko.”

_

When Yuuri moves in with Viktor, Viktor’s anxiously holding onto a dazed Makkachin, worrying about whether his choice of décor would fit with Yuuri’s expectations. But Yuuri simply grins, and doesn’t point out the unnecessary number of couches, nor the walk-in closet (half of which is left empty for Yuuri’s belongings), nor the ornate lamps in every room. Hell, he doesn’t even remark about the glass chandelier dangling precariously above the pristine dining table.

What Yuuri does comment on, however, is the fact that Viktor’s utensils consist of: two plates, one mug, seven forks and two butter-knifes. He’s tutting slightly at the logistical nightmare of the kitchen before he can stop himself:

“Viktor, you don’t have spoons.” And then, catching himself, “I mean, I’m not saying. It’s not a big deal – I, uh.”

Viktor, positively glowing with delight and relief, envelopes Yuuri in a hug. “I have a little one here.”

(They go cutlery shopping all the same later.)

_

For the first time, Viktor is happy to wait for dinner. After establishing his absolute inexperience in the kitchen (besides cracking eggs, really – Viktor’s only expertise is smooth-talking the nearest takeout restaurant into buying a side dish for Makkachin), Viktor’s been tasked to set the table. It doesn’t take long, of course, so Viktor’s just scrolling through Instagram and spoiling Makkachin with affection.

 

_[image]_

_♥ 18,292 likes_

_phichitchu_ [25/36] back, back, back again! @katsuki_yuuri @mikey.m #detroit #dance #nofilter #tbt #college

_View all 371 comments_

_jesu.i.s_ @heraaaaa @mikey.m oh my goddddddddddddd

 _canon.bby_ HAVE MY BABIES @katsuki_yuuri

 

_[image]_

_♥ 19,733 likes_

_yuri_plisetsky_ Another.

_View all 224 comments_

_yuri.angels_ @christopher_gio KYAAAAAAAAAAA~

 _lizzie.b_ This is awesome! You’re so inspiring!

 

Viktor smiles, and swipes left to take a photo of Makkachin. “Come on now, boy, smile.”

Makkachin’s staring off into the distance, and Viktor frowns. He tries again, this time reaching for Makkachin’s ear, ready to coax him into being a bit more cooperative. The poodle doesn’t make a sound, blinking slowly in response instead. Viktor’s fingers make their way to just under Makkachin’s chin, massaging, searching. This time, Makkachin’s tail starts floundering, and he turns, almost deliberately, towards Viktor.

Viktor puts his phone down. “What’s wrong, boy?”

Makkachin, still silent, nudges against Viktor’s hand, pushing it towards the phone.

“You want a picture?” Viktor asks, compliant.

This time, Makkachin pants, dragging up a paw for the picture. When Viktor’s done, the dog sinks into the couch, and allows himself a low whine. Viktor shows him the post – Makkachin looks unimpressed, as usual, but rolls over as Viktor scratches his tummy.

“Viktor! Dinner’s ready,” Yuuri calls from the kitchen.

When Viktor pulls away and turns towards the dining table, Makkachin gets off the couch and makes his way towards the study.

_

_[image]_

_♥ 35,488 likes_

_v-nikiforov_ doggo!!

_View all 503 comments_

_dodop_ makkachins as stunning as usual uwu

 _makkabby_ @makkaachin @macca.dog idk makkachin looks a bit tired. Jet-lag?

 _makkaachin_ @makkabby @macca.dog Maybe Makkachin ate steam buns again? ;)

 _k-tie_ so CUTE! aaaaa

 _ilivefordogs_ That’s the face of a dog that I would trust with my entire life. 

_

Viktor wakes up first – he’s an early riser – and stretches out the kinks in his neck. He yawns, and feels around his right hand for the golden band. It’s still there. It’s still resting, securely, on his finger. The light from the window shines in just right, illuminating his hand. The ring glimmers knowingly, cutting through the heady mist that weaves him in and out from day to night to day. It’s the kind of weight that reminds you why you’re feeling it, the kind that keeps you counting. Out of habit, out of disbelief, Viktor kisses the ring on his hand, and smiles.

But his toes are cold – Makkachin’s not sleeping at the end of the bed as usual – so he brushes his feet up against a warm pair of calves. Yuuri shuffles next to him, still soundly asleep, and moves his legs away from the press of cold toes against his own. Viktor smirks, and pulls Yuuri into his embrace, tangling his cold feet with Yuuri’s warmer ones. Unable to escape, Yuuri begins to stir.

“Viktor,” Yuuri complains, bedhead peeking out. “Your feet is cold.”

“And you’re warm,” Viktor says by way of explanation. “So comfortable.”

Yuuri groans when he feels Viktor’s equally-as-cold fingers marching up under his shirt. “I’m not your personal warmer.”

Viktor pouts. “But you’re so warm, Yuuri.”

Yuuri opens one eye lazily. “You’re _Russian_.”

“I’m taking things slow,” Viktor jokes.

Yuuri flings a pillow at him.

_

“This is why cats are better,” Yurio drawls unhelpfully, tactlessly peering over Viktor’s elbow. “Wikihow’s a scam.”

Viktor’s not perceptive, but he knows something’s wrong when a dog refuses to eat anything for more than a week.

_

“I think we should take Makkachin to the vet.”

_

He spends the next few days with Makkachin. The poodle is unusually reclusive, having taken to hiding in the study. Yuuri joins him, and they sit in silence for a morning, tracing meaningless letters, shapes and figures across Makkachin’s heaving back. Viktor doesn’t know what to feel – he’s not exactly overcome with grief, nor is he filled with hope that Makkachin will muster the power of love and continue hankering after steamed buns.

(To some small, guilty extent, he wishes he could get the watching-your-dog-die part out of the way, and just get to the mourning.)

So Viktor talks, like he used to when it was just him and Makkachin. He rambles about the routines, hashing out missed points with disappointment and anticipation (he _knows_ it’s not impossible); the skaters, the ones in Juniors as well as those competing against him, examining their strengths and potential; the gala, where Otabek deadpanned his way through the Pen-Pinapple-Apple-Pen remix, and where Phichit dabbed for his final pose.

When he runs out of words to spare for skating (an impossible feat, really), he recounts their trips the past year. Viktor goes on and on about the people he met in Hasetsu, the stupid drama on twitter, Instagram, and all the weird memes he’s seen on their group chats. And maybe he’s laughing, he can’t really tell, because Yuuri’s hand is on his, and he’s shaking too, and

and Yuuri, Yuuri listens.

_

Yuuri leads Viktor to bed after two days of staying up with Makkachin. Viktor doesn’t want to, but complies when he sees the bags under Yuuri’s eyes.

_

He doesn’t sleep – Viktor Nikiforov is more than used to going days without sleep. But once Yuuri’s settled in their bed, Viktor sneaks back into the study. Makkachin’s still alive – the faint rise and fall of his chest says that much – and then Makkachin wakes up, glassy eyes blinking to focus on Viktor.

“Did I wake you?” Viktor says. “I’m sorry.”

Makkachin makes an effort to rest his head on Viktor’s lap. He whines.

“Good boy,” Viktor says softly, and starts stroking his fur. He remembers Mama Hiroko’s words: “You’ve been very strong, Makkachin.”

Makkachin breathes noisily, and Viktor’s hand stills.

“It’s okay. I got you. You’re okay.”

_

_“He must have been strong, to be alone.”_

_

Yuuri wakes up to a cold bed. The steady rhythm of the clock ticking away has him slipping out of the room and into the study. Viktor’s resting a hand over Makkachin’s tummy.

“Viktor?”

“He’s gone,” Viktor says evenly.

Yuuri nods, and walks over to where Viktor is, before settling down beside him. A moment. And then Yuuri takes his hand, interlacing their fingers. Viktor squeezes, hard.

_

_“Let him take care of you too.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> im crying  
> and so are u


End file.
